


Requirements

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, M/M, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain things much always be verified, even if Sherlock can’t understand the necessity for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requirements

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Coffee. Of course. Tobacco. Only faint though. First cigarette of the day evidently- No, cigarillo. Davidoff or Cohiba? _That_ sort of morning is it? What else? Burnt French toast? _Burnt_? How very unusual. Mycroft never burns his food. Evidence in the kitchen. Have to be careful not to step on drying dishes. Window _is_ open. Technically not breaking and entering. Just the entering part. Frying pan on stove. Chard bits on pan. Not enough oil? Large bowl soaking in the sink. Dry dishes haven’t been put away since yesterday. Mycroft is never disorganised.

Check fridge. Can’t be here. _Obviously_. Full of fruit, conserves and suspicious tub of Chinese curry sauce. Chips and curry sauce again? Indulgence. Cheap tinned Frankfurters in the cupboards, half eaten jar of sauerkraut too. Since when does Mycroft eat tinned pilchard? Sugar cubes in a tub. _Not_ used for coffee. Where _does_ he keep his absinth? Not in the kitchen, like the Stoli. Always has at least three bottles on hand at any one time. Often wondered about that. Does Mycroft have pretentions towards Muscovite society? Closer to Chelsea, _dahling_.

Haven’t heard from Mycroft in weeks. Not... unusual exactly. But- too quiet, too silent. Positively _unresponsive_. Maybe... Does Mycroft ever take holidays? Can’t. Where would he go? Can’t imagine him skiing. Where else? Lichtenstein? Going to tally up your investments, dear brother? Can’t be here at any rate. Maybe he does- Can’t imagine him relaxing either. Not really. Constant state of- Mycroft doesn’t sleep: he waits. Has to sleep sometimes. Wonder if he does. Possibly. Ought to. Biological imperative. When has Mycroft ever obeyed biology? Or anybody’s imperative but his own?

Noise. Music. Oh. What is he playing at? Loud music. In one of those moods then. Consider leaving. Just climb right back out of that window. Knock his teacups into the sink if I do. Curious- deliberate. Dishes stacked to only allow soundless entry. Such games. Fine then. Enforced sociability. Time to go poke at my lethargic brother. Consider stealing some of his vodka. Not rare really. Can buy it in Tesco. Won’t. Stole some of his Swiss absinth once. Bastard broke in and stole it back. Why? Wasn’t particularly good Swiss absinth. Territorial, my brother. Don’t have much of a head for vodka anyway. Let me steal- Norwegian vodka. Damn near burnt my lips off.

Living room then. Mycroft. Doesn’t look up. Ashtray beside him. Cigarillos. Davidoff. Gold filters too. Older. Night before. Sobranie Black Russian. Smokes Belomorkanal too. Not now. Only when... working. Saves the- papirosa. No filter: just a cardboard tube. Puts the tubes in the recycling. Little metal ashtray. Portable. Collects them. Always wondered... So fastidious. Maybe he _is_ deliberately- Would they really be able to verify his DNA from- of course they would. In the right circumstances. What circumstances? Consider it later. Slumped on couch. _Sprawled._ Dressing gown far too rumpled. Why? What have you been doing, brother mine?

“Sherlock, darling, how lovely to see you again.”

Is he drunk? Only calls me ‘darling’ when-

“What have you done?”

Laughs. Giggles. Punch-drunk. Why? _If you’d got to believe in something, believe in us ‘cuz we make it easy_. Odd lyrics. Appropriate, of course. All in the staging. Typical. Always had such varied musical taste. Wider range of modern. Classically trained of course. First study was the piano. Curious that. Prosaic. Will argue anyone’s ear off over the superiority of Baroque composers over Romantic. Far too enthralled with The Art of Fugue. Of course, plays the pipe organ too. Very good actually- Never tell him that. C minor Passacaglia and Fugue. Always. Probably left instructions to play it at his funeral. Shame really. Won’t get to hear it: will be too busy disembowelling the man who killed him.

“Always so suspicious. Perhaps I’m just pleased at my brother’s visit.”  
“Nonsense.”

Look around suspiciously. Something is... _wrong_. Laughing again. Hilarious. What have you done, Mycroft? Listen to music change. Must be in a very good mood to be listening to- Metalica. Trivia. Hard to erase Master of Puppets though. Suits him. Rather frightening mix of Madonna’s Erotica too. Don’t like that at all. Songs about manipulation and pain. Does Mycroft like that sort of thing? Of course he does. Hit him with a riding crop once. Never again. Not enough liquor in the world to erase his expression. Smiled at me. _Smiled_. _Enjoyed_ it. Hard enough pretending that I haven’t seen the-

“My darling brother, whatever is the matter? You seem to have come over all peculiar.”

Peculiar. Sniggering as he says it. _What has he done?_ Only smiles like that when- Only laughs like that- Not only one who- Have seen that expression- Only once. CCTV. Old. Grainy image. Black and white. Sniper dressed all in black. Shot a man in cold blood. Murdered at his own daughter’s wedding. Horrible. Lips pulled back from teeth. Totenkopf. Death’s Head grin. _Enjoyed_ it. Death, on swift wings. Should never have- was curious. Old footage. Secure. Images of- Daddy never smiled like that at home. Only out in the field. Horrifying. Mycroft smiles like that all the time.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

Before I fall down instead. Something. Details. _What have I missed?_ Mycroft has been... gone. Missing. No communication with his office. PA on auto-pilot. Taking command decisions. Stopped wearing skirts the minute he was- Carrying- Carries at gun anyway. Carrying it more obviously. Knife strapped to a leg too. Obvious. Cliché. Effective anyway. Though- don’t- He was _gone_. Had to know. No aversion to breaking and entering. Just don’t. Not with Mycroft’s house. Not usually.

“ _Good_. You’re very compliant this morning.”

Sitting down. Didn’t even realise. Fell down more like. Chair underneath. Didn’t fall far then. What _is_ Mycroft smiling about? Hand flutters to hem of dressing-gown. Odd. Fabric covering ankles. Unusual. Why? Fabric shouldn’t- deliberately pulled to cover... what? What is he hiding? _There’s a simple satisfaction in a little bit of pain._ Awful lyric. Shudder. Watch. Stands up. _Oh_. Minor, minor, abrasion. Barely there. Certainly not noticeable if- Was looking for it. Always looking. Not enough to- Padded restraints. Edges. Fine line. Barely noticeable. His wrists. Can’t help myself. One line. Left wrist. Thin. Barely- noticed. Angle, not pressure. Restraints at the extremities. What else- can guess.

“You sick bastard.”  
“Really, Sherlock, whatever happened to ‘your kink is not my kink but-“  
“You don’t have to flaunt it!”  
“I remind you that _you_ broke into _my_ house.”

Watch his eyes narrow. Cross with me now. Didn’t mean it... like that. Rub hands over face. Never mean it like that. Just...

“For God’s sake be careful!”  
“Sherlock...”

On his knees beside me now. Fingers tangled with mine. Squeeze eyes shut. Can’t even comprehend- _Why_? Mycroft. So strong. So resolute. Why _this_?

“Look at me.”  
“No.”  
“You know that I-“  
“Don’t say it.”  
“We each of us have our own preferences. Mine are no more dangerous to my person than yours are.”

Can’t- Won’t- Have to be sure. Open eyes. Stare down at him. Novel really. Usually have to look up slightly.

“Did he hurt you?”

Watch his face. Considers several responses. One is probably ‘yes’. The unvarnished truth. Decides against it. What right do I have to- Always so fond of melodrama. Probably can’t help myself.

“Only the way I wanted him to.”  
“How can you be so bloody sure?”  
“We negotiate beforehand. I’ve explained this to you before, Sherlock. You know that I won’t take risks.”  
“You take risks every time.”  
“No, I don’t. That isn’t what this is about.”

How can- I’ve _seen_ the marks, Mycroft. You let him cut you last time! Blood tests don’t mean anything when you let someone- Good God, Mycroft. What kind of man would-

“Morning.”

John. Rumpled hair. Mycroft’s dressing-gown. Oh God. _John_. Of course- scalpels. That was why- How dare you! My brother- Surge up out of chair. Not trained, not really but- John overcompensates for his right leg. Psychosomatic but it doesn’t- Take out the knee. Easy. Could-How- kitchen knives. Drill it down. Shoulder. Not injured side. Disposal-

“John, why don’t you go and make us all some tea.”

Mycroft is still on the floor. Still slouched. Posture all wrong. But- is this what the Bene Gesserit Voice sounds like? John’s moving before he realises. Tries to stop himself. Stalls.

“John...”

Plaintive. Is that my own voice? Slump back into chair. Don’t- Rub hand over eyes. I can’t- Mycroft, does this make you happy? Mycroft’s hands tugging at mine. Look at him.

“Yes, Sherlock, this is exactly what I need.”

**Author's Note:**

> The three tracks mentioned from Mycroft’s playlist are Information Society’s “Peace & Love, Inc”, Soil & Eclipse’s cover of “Master of Puppets” and Raised in Black vs Transmutor’s cover of “Erotica”.
> 
> The 50% proof Norwegian vodka is a brand named Vikingfjord.


End file.
